ii:c
Continued from here.
Stan wasn’t repelled, though, merely fascinated. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen Kyle naked before, but not this exposed, his legs splayed for Stan to examine closely. Over the course of the past year, Kyle had sent Stan frequent e-mails documenting the development of Kyle’s body. He no longer had periods, Stan knew, not for some time; Kyle’s weight had redistributed, shifting from his thighs to his belly. Stan tired not to stare at Kyle’s junk, really tried, tried to keep his gaze focused on Kyle’s eyes. But Stan couldn’t help it, and he looked downward, past the binder, and the hair on Kyle’s stomach, to his genitals.
“I could - you know, I could mess around with it,” Kyle said, quietly. “If I wanted to. But no matter what I do I’ll never have a dick, you know?”
“Kyle,” said Stan, softly. “Kyle, I-”
“I could try to like, claw my way to something that kind of seems like one,” said Kyle. “I could pay to have them cut me up and rearrange me over and over again until I didn’t even look human. But what good would that do?”
“This is too much,” said Stan.
“Well, I’m sorry it’s too much for you,” said Kyle. “For me, it won’t ever be enough.” He grabbed Stan by the shoulders, and Stan felt that Kyle was shaking, too. Why hadn’t Stan noticed? Kyle leaned in and Stan sighed as Kyle kissed him. Kyle always initiated their kisses, it seemed, now that Stan thought about it - though he still relished the way Kyle melted into them. Stan waited for that, but it didn’t come this time.
“Will you do something for me?” Kyle asked, pulling away.
“Of course.” Stan wiped at his eyes. He felt so drained. “Anything.”
The wonderful thing about Stan’s lack of sexual experience, on the whole, was that he had no real frame of reference for what it should be like. He had never gone down on anyone before, man or woman or anyone at all, and he did not miss the weight of a cock on his tongue, nor cringe at the dryness, which was something he wasn’t expecting. Kyle had mentioned feeling wet before, though not for a while; maybe this was due to having taken hormones for some time. Stan quickly grew tired, but Kyle’s encouraging moans gave Stan incentive not to stop. The thought crossed Stan’s mind, as Kyle was grinding his hips forward, that Stan was on the floor and Kyle was on the bed, that they were in Kyle’s bedroom, and that Kyle had not actually bothered to ask Stan if this position was comfortable or even if Stan wanted to do this. All Kyle had said was, “Will you do something for me?” and honestly, Stan had been expecting Kyle to ask Stan to leave or to swipe them some beers from Stan’s dad, or something. As Stan pushed his tongue against the protrusion of Kyle’s clit he considered that perhaps they could change positions. Stan’s knees burned against the carpet.
“Here,” he said, into Kyle’s crotch.
“What?” Kyle sat up, grabbing for Stan’s hair. “Don’t - don’t stop-”
“Just - let’s - here.” Stan pulled Kyle off of the bed, and Kyle wiped at his eyes.
“Were you not enjoying that?” Kyle asked. “I was.”
“Good, no, I liked it.” Stan sat up straighter, unbuttoning the fly on his shorts.
“Then why did you stop?”
“Because I wanted - here.” Stan slid off his shorts, his cock so hard it was soaking the front of his briefs. He pulled those down, too, handing them to Kyle.
“What am I supposed to do with these, put them on my head?” He was flushed, a little sweaty. The binder was stained under his pits.
“I dunno,” said Stan. “I guess I thought it’d be sexy. Just, um - lie down. On your side, just - yeah.”
“What’s the point of this?” Kyle asked.
Stan angled himself across Kyle’s body so that he was hugging Kyle’s knees. “Now, you just kind of like, suck me off. I think?”
“Oh, you think?”
“Yeah, and then I - you know.” Stan pried Kyle’s thighs apart, kissing indiscriminately. It felt weirdly romantic, but Stan’s main prerogative was just exploring, learning more about Kyle’s body, seeing it from a new angle.
“Stay away from there,” Kyle said, when Stan licked at Kyle’s slit. “Can you just kind of suck it? Not, like, suction, but with your lips, but more - yes, like that!” Kyle relaxed as Stan adjusted, posture relaxing. “That’s pretty good.”
Stan looked up, trying to get a view of Kyle’s face, which was difficult in this position. “Dude, you have to - can you…?” He tried to thrust his dick toward Kyle’s face.
“I guess so,” said Kyle. He sounded unexcited. To be fair, he had sucked Stan off before.
It had never been easy for Stan to know when Kyle was coming, not unless Kyle said something about it. When Stan came he had to stop, clutching at Kyle’s thigh, panting. He felt completely drained of energy, unable to continue. It was a relatively weak orgasm; though Kyle gave okay blow jobs, he never gave them while being sucked off, or upside-down. When Stan sat up he had to look to Kyle for benediction, for a pronouncement that this had been okay.
Kyle didn’t say anything; he was still wiping the come from his chin.
“Um, how was it?” Stan was so tired, worse than any recent morning run.
“You tasted good today,” was all Kyle said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. What about me?”
“How’d you taste?”
Kyle blushed. “Yeah.”
“Well, not like much,” said Stan. “Kind of - like sweat. But, not in a bad way. Kind of like - I don’t know, not like how I imagined!”
“In what sense?” Kyle asked.
“In like - here.” Stan crawled over, pulling down his T-shirt. He grasped Kyle’s cheeks and kissed him. “What does that taste like?” he asked, pulling away.
“Not like semen, if you must know,” said Kyle.
“But, like.” Stan paused. “Did you come?”
“Are you serious? Did I come? Like, eight times.”
“Eight?” Stan could not imagine he was that good.
“God, I don’t know, I lose count after two.”
Stan stood up, reaching down for Kyle. Kyle’s balance as off when he was on his feet, and he fell back onto his bed. “Put your pants on, okay? You look insane.”
Looking down at himself Stan saw his softening dick, wet with Kyle’s spit mingling with his come, pubes matted. “I was so worried,” he said, bending over for his underwear.
“About what?”
“That you didn’t want to see me again.”
For a moment Kyle said nothing. Stan expected him to reply with, “Of course not.” Instead, Kyle looked away and said, “I was worried you’d never do that for me.”
“I’d do anything for you.” Stan hated to hear how his voice cracked.
“Well, I was worried no one ever would. I was worried - I worry I’ll have to end up with some lesbian or something. Some other trans dude. And that’s not what I want.”
“That’s a stupid thing to worry about!” Stan said, instinctually. As he was saying it he realized it was a horrible thing to say, the exact wrong decision, and yet it came out anyway. “I mean - it’s just - it’s inconceivable to me that someone wouldn’t want to be with you.”
“Or some fucked-up cheating straight guy who wants a guy with a pussy.”
“A guy who wants a guy with a pussy isn’t straight,” said Stan.
“I’m not in the mood to debate gender theory shit. Can you please put your pants on?”
Stan did, and it was the end of the conversation.
“It’s okay to be afraid of shit and uncertain and - you know, all of that,” Stan said, after dinner. Kyle’s mother had made beef stroganoff. It was only upon sitting down for this meal that Stan learned that Ike had been shipped off to Jewish summer camp for two months. The meal was unusually quiet, and the food was so heavy that Stan felt reluctant to go home.
When Stan said his piece about uncertainty, they were sitting on the front stoop, Kyle drinking from a liter bottle of diet Sprite. Stan was drinking a glass of water.
“I guess that’s true,” Kyle said. The faint sound of crickets developed as the sunset fractured into darkness. “I guess I’d say the same thing to you, Stan.”
“Okay,” said Stan. “I mean, I know. Yeah.”
“Okay.” Kyle coughed. “Are you going to Token’s party?”
“For the Fourth of July?”
“Yes, unless he’s having parties I’m not invited to.”
“That’s the only one I know of,” said Stan. The invitation had come via e-mail. “I was - considering going.”
“Do you want to go? Um, together?”
“You mean - like a date?”
“Kind of,” said Kyle. “Something like a date, I guess.”
“Then, yeah,” said Stan. “I’d love to.”
“Cool,” said Kyle. A moment passed before he spoke up again. He took a sip of the Sprite. He recapped it. “I’m sorry if I’m being weird.”
“It’s okay. I know you had that surgery. I really - it really matters to me that you’re okay.” Stan’s voice was full of neediness, and he cringed at it.
“I know, and I - sorry. I know I’ve been weird. I’m just trying to figure shit out. Because I don’t know what I want. When I said that shit about hiding-”
“It’s okay,” said Stan, expecting an apology.
“I know it was okay!” Kyle snapped. “It’s just that - the thing is, you’ve definitely never said how you felt about me.”
“Good,” said Stan. He felt confused, a bit afraid, though he wasn’t sure of what. Kyle’s words were heavy and he spoke slowly, contemplative. Stan said, “I don’t want you to have any doubts. About how I feel, I mean.”
“Great.” Kyle drank from the Sprite, emptying it. He tossed it onto the lawn. “Don’t worry,” he said to Stan’s groan. “I’ll pick it up later.”
Kyle did not ask Stan to sleep over, and Stan left after they kissed on the steps, in the dark. “You taste like beef gravy and Sprite,” said Stan, tenderly, into Kyle’s ear.
“But not like vagina,” Kyle replied, pushing Stan away by the chest.
Stan walked home.
~
July 3 was devastatingly hot, and Stan spent it running. He was lazy in the morning and waited until after lunch, pushing himself. Consequently he worked much harder in the blistering heat, soaking his shirt, pores burning with sweat-mingled sunscreen. He never considered how far he was running; he did not have a pedometer. He considered this for the first time as he soaked in the tub, A Feast For Crows abandoned next to the tub. After dozing there for 20 minutes, he got up and looked at the Buffaloes track and cross-country team sites, suddenly aware of how this might be something more to him than simply killing time. He had certainly not been recruited, not for running or for basketball, but there were open tryouts shortly before school began for both teams. It overlapped with orientation and Stan considered giving it a shot. It would depend on what Kyle thought, Stan figured. Perhaps he wouldn’t have time.
The next day was no less hot and humid, and Stan did not run. He was exhausted, staggering to Kyle’s house, afraid to drive for how tried he was. “I thought you were driving,” Kyle said, answering the door.
“I’m beat,” said Stan. “Can’t you?”
“I want to drink,” said Kyle.
“If you get drunk at the party I’ll drive your car home.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Kyle. “You’re not going to drink?”
“I’ll have, like, one beer.” At Kyle’s incredulous look, Stan said, “You figured I was driving anyway!”
“Fine,” Kyle relented. “I guess I’ll tell my dad I’m borrowing the car.”
For Token’s party Kyle had dressed on the same sky-blue shirt and a pair of white skinny jeans. Kyle had never worn skinny jeans, not ever. Stan was immediately turned on, boner throbbing in his own shorts.
“Those jeans look amazing on you,” Stan said as Kyle returned with the keys and a tote bag that looked crammed with a billion things.
“Thanks. I figured it was patriotic, see? Red, white, and blue.” He tugged at his hair.
“You’re super fucking patriotic,” said Stan, all but licking his lips. He had worn a long-sleeved black sweatshirt of his sister’s over his T, concerned about mosquitos. She had been wearing a lot of guy’s clothes over the past year, and Stan found the oversized pieces that blurred her figure to a nondescript androgyny fit him with the intended precision. (He was presently unaware if she knew he was wearing her shirts; she was in Turkey.) It was mid-afternoon, only about 3, but if this party lived up to its hype, Stan expected to be home after dark.
They found the backyard strung with red, white, and blue lanterns, bag-tosses set up on the lawn with starred-and-striped markers, tent over the buffet. Stan had not been expecting adults at the party, but here they were. Perhaps it was foolish to expect that Token’s parents and their set would not be there, though he had heard vague gossip that they had rental in Jackson Hole for the month of July. Maybe they were leaving after the holiday. Stan was certain that from the deck he could spy the makings of a fireworks display across the property.
As soon as someone shouted, “You guys! Hey!” Kyle clung to Stan’s arm.
It was Wendy and Bebe, both wearing American flag-print bandeau tops. Bebe’s peeked through the low V-neck of her airy red tank dress; Wendy’s was in contrast to the paleness of her pasty stomach, a slight roll of fat perched atop high-waisted denim shorts.
“Jesus,” said Kyle. “Those shorts, Wendy, shit.”
“Fuck that!” said Wendy. “You look amazing!”
“I do?” Kyle let go of Stan’s arm, though the feeling of Kyle’s nails in his flesh lingered.
“Yes!” said Bebe. She was wearing a pair of large white cat’s eye sunglasses and a huge sunhat that obscured part of her face, though Stan could make out blinding red lipstick. “God, like you don’t know.”
“You’re just saying that,” said Kyle. He crossed his arms over chest.
“No, you look really good!” said Wendy. “You’ve been hiding from everyone!”
“Well,” Kyle began.
“Don’t ‘well,’ ” said Bebe. “You have!”
“I had surgery,” said Kyle, lamely.
“And you!” said Wendy, pointing at Stan. Her nails had grown out somewhat, and she had done them with patriotic glitter. With those nails, being pointed at felt threatening. “You ditched me for pride!”
“I was never going to that,” said Stan.
“Why not?” Bebe asked. “God, it was insane!”
“Watching a bunch of queers dance stupidly in the street isn’t insane to me,” Stan said, bitterly. Suddenly he didn’t want to be here.
“Oh, god,” said Wendy. She was actually going to Vassar. “Seriously, though, Kyle, you look amazing.”
“I feel okay,” he said.
“Did you lose weight?” Bebe asked.
Kyle blushed. “By necessity.”
“We should talk,” said Wendy. She grabbed him by the arm. “Cartman made a fucking pool over whether you’d show up to this.”
“He did?” Stan asked.
“God, you really haven’t been around either!” said Bebe.
“He thought you had insider information,” Wendy added.
“Well, I did not.”
Wendy grabbed Kyle by the arm. “We should get a drink.”
“That’s great,” said Kyle. He turned to walk away.
Stan’s heart clenched.
“Wait, shit.” Kyle turned. “Stan.”
“Yeah?”
“My keys.” Kyle reached into his tote bag and handed them over. “You promised.”
Though he couldn’t recall having strictly promised, Stan took them. “No problem,” he said. It felt spousal to Stan, taking Kyle’s keys like that. He grinned as he stuffed them into his pocket.
Stan got a cup of fizzy cucumber-scented water from a glass dispenser jug on the buffet and joined some guys for bags. Craig Tucker was officiating, eating a hot dog as he determined that Clyde’s latest toss had fallen short. “It’s not touching the 10-point line,” Craig was saying. He was wearing an unflattering short-sleeved plaid button-down. The collar was buttoned up all the way, and it made Stan cringe.
“But it is on the line.”
“It’s totally not, man,” said Token. He was also eating a hot dog, though he was a pescetarian, and Stan suspected it was a tofu one. He thought to say something to the effect of, “I tried to go vegetarian once and it turned out horribly for me,” but that story was humiliating, and Stan restrained himself. They probably already knew.
“It is,” Clyde was saying. He was especially proud of his letterman jacket, and he was wearing it even in the heat. “It is on the line. I swear it’s on the line.”
“It’s really not,” said Craig, through a bite of hot dog. There was relish on his lips.
“It was,” said Clyde, “I swear it was on the line!”
“Maybe you want to take that jacket off,” Token suggested, kindly. He did not speak with food in his mouth.
“I need a beer,” said Clyde, and he staggered off.
“Is he seriously wearing that thing?” Stan asked.
“He’s going through some shit,” said Craig.
“Esther dumped him,” Token added. He took a bite of his hot dog.
Stan had pity for Clyde, though not much. He sipped his water. “That’s rough,” he managed to offer.
“Nah,” said Craig. “She’s nothing special. He could do better!”
“I don’t think it’s personal,” said Token, after swallowing. “It’s just, we graduated.”
Stan asked, “What, like people are just supposed to forsake all their ties because suddenly they’re not in high school?”
“No,” said Token, “but it’s kind of a natural breaking-off point. They’ve only been together a few months.”
“Who wants to end up with their high school sweetheart?” said Craig. “That’s so fucking - cliché. It makes my stomach turn.”
“That’s the raccoon meat tube you’re eating!”
“Fuck you, man,” said Craig. “I know your parents spring for all-beef.”
“Whatever.” Token rolled his eyes and finished off his tofu dog.
“Did Broflovski make it?” Craig asked.
“Yeah,” said Stan, “he did!”
“I saw him on the veranda when you guys came in,” said Token. “With - Wendy?”
“And Bebe,” Stan confirmed.
“Bebe’s looking ridiculous,” said Craig.
“I think she looks good!” Stan said.
“Ridiculously hot,” Craig clarified.
“You could get on it,” said Token.
“No way.” Craig took the last bite of his hot dog. It was slightly too large, and he wedged it into his mouth. “I’ve literally got bigger fish to fry. Cartman owes me 15 bucks.”
“That pool was stupid.”
“Did you guys seriously all bet on whether Kyle would show?”
“Morbid curiosity,” said Token.
“We wanted to see what happened to his tits,” said Craig. When Stan scowled, he added, “He blew off prom and graduation. Come on. He built up the suspense. On purpose. Knowing him.”
“He was not building up suspense,” said Stan, suddenly very angry. “He was in a lot of pain.”
“You’d know, I guess,” said Craig.
“Kenny said you guys weren’t hanging out much.”
“He was in a lot of pain,” Stan repeated.
“No need to get - weird,” Token said.
“Okay,” said Stan. “Sorry.” He wasn’t sure what the right thing to say next was. “I can’t drink,” he said finally, “because Kyle gave me the car keys in case he’s too drunk to drive home.”
“Your loss,” said Craig, apparently missing the part about Stan having Kyle’s car keys. “There’s a margarita fountain.”
~
Stan next ran into Kyle at the margarita fountain, where Kyle turned red and shouted at Stan, “Stop telling people I am in pain!”
Stan was not there to get a drink; he was merely curious. After having eaten a plain hot dog, he had sat with Kenny on the lawn for a time, while Kenny bitched about girl troubles. Stan had nothing to say to Kenny on the topic, and to get away from it Stan had offered to go find out about the margaritas. Sure enough it was exactly as promised, a champagne fountain burbling with lime-scented, vaguely green slush. Stan wondered how the drink wasn't melting.
"Sorry," Stan said. "It's just - you were."
"I know," said Kyle, getting somewhat close to Stan. He seemed as if this was not his first trip to the fountain, if only because his teeth had a very slightly green tinge. A sane person wouldn't know the precise color of Kyle's teeth, but Stan did. Also his breath smelled somewhat limey. "Don't go around telling losers about my personal business."
"I do not go around telling anyone about your personal business. You had surgery," said Stan, probably for the billionth time recently. "Of course you were in pain. And no one's seen you-"
"So what?" said Kyle. "I don't have to be seen. Maybe I don't want to be seen. Maybe I just want to get drunk for once like a normal person."
"Okay," said Stan. "Sorry."
"Maybe I'm still in pain," Kyle added.
"Well, I really hope not. If you are your plugs might be infected, or something. You should tell your surgeon."
"I had my drains out weeks ago!" Kyle walked away. His ass looked great as he left, disappearing behind a crowd.
Now Stan hated the party and wanted to leave. Unfortunately his ride was Kyle's car, which meant Stan was going to have to wait for Kyle. He could relinquish the keys, returning them to Kyle's possession; maybe Stan could just run home. But that would leave Kyle stranded, as he'd been drinking, and Stan just couldn't do that to Kyle. Stan felt anxious. There were so many people in the backyard. He actually hated all of them. He wanted to cry. ... No he didn't. He would just have a drink, one margarita. Maybe half a margarita. Whatever, there probably wasn't enough tequila in one fountain margarita to make Stan drunk, at least, not if he had a second hot dog. Maybe some chips, too. If they were going to be at this party long enough Stan would sober up regardless. Okay. He was doing this. Stan left to get his hot dog. This time he put relish on it.
Kenny was at the buffet. "Oh god," he said. "You know who else puts relish on hot dogs?" He was eating tortilla chips directly out of the bowl, not bothering with the seven-layer dip that was sitting to his left, on ice, in a silver tray.
"I don't know. Who?"
"Craig," said Kenny.
"Oh," said Stan. "Yeah, I guess I knew that. He was eating some before."
"Some what?"
"Like a hot dog with relish on it."
"Disgusting," said Kenny.
"Well," said Stan. He dipped a chip into the seven-layer dip. It appeared to be comprised of guacamole, beans, salsa, sour cream, a white cheese, a mottled orange-and-yellow cheese ... something else Stan couldn't identify ... maybe chorizo. He shrugged and stuck the chip in his mouth. "Are you just going to stand there eating chips all day?"
"Please," said Kenny. "This is my first round of chips. I have a shift in an hour."
"You do?" asked Stan. "On a holiday? Oh my god."
"Well, it's overtime," said Kenny. "People love to get patriotic with fucking pizza."
"I'll bet," said Stan.
"You know." Kenny leaned in. His breath smelled like hot dogs. "They're taking ribs off the smoker soon."
"Wow," said Stan.
Then, Kenny added, as casual as anything, "Donovan passed out with fucking heat stroke."
"Well, that's not surprising. He's wearing a fucking leather jacket in 92-degree - you know what, I don't care about Clyde."
"He got dumped," said Kenny.
"I know!" Stan walked away shaking his head. It was time for a margarita.
~
Stan sat down on the lawn with his drink, brushing the hot dog bun crumbs from his lips. The taste of the seven-layer dip lingered in his mouth. It was driving him crazy. It muted the first sip of his margarita, leaving him scowling. He looked around; even under a tree in the shade he was sweltering today. He should not have run yesterday. Not in this heat, not at all. He was glad he had taken off his sweatshirt.
"There you are!"
Stan looked up to see Kyle. The pits of his T-shirt were drenched in sweat now. It made Stan grin. "Hey," he said, raising a glass. "Toast. To like, the country, or something."
"I'm not going to toast you," said Kyle. "You're not supposed to be drinking."
"Sorry," said Stan. The glass was cold and wet in his hands. He wanted to reach out for Kyle, who sat down on the lawn beside him.
"I asked you to do one thing and that was drive me home," Kyle bitched. "I gave you my keys!"
"You asked me to be your date," said Stan. "And look. Here we are."
"You said you wanted to be my date! I just said let's go together."
"Yeah, so here we are together."
"Oh my god." Kyle put his drink aside and his head in his hands. In the humidity even his shorter hair was unruly.
"What?" Stan asked. "What's wrong? I'm definitely not going to get drunk. I won't even drink this if you don't want me to."
"I don't care if you drink that or not." Kyle's face was covered in the sheen of sweat. Stan would have licked it off at this point. He would have done anything. It was all he wanted. "I get the feeling," said Kyle, "that we should talk."
"About what?" Stan asked. He took a second sip of his drink. The slush had mostly melted in the heat.
“I don’t really know if I want to be in a relationship starting college,” Kyle said, swirling the margarita. Stan had already set his down; it was bitter, both from an overabundance of lime and too much sugar. It made his teeth sting, and his sense of taste was dulled. Yet Kyle kept drinking his, with a sour look on his face. Stan hoped it was from the margarita, and he hoped that Kyle did not drink the rest of it too quickly. “College is serious, Stan. I want to do well in college so I can maybe go to graduate school. Maybe get a good job. You know?”
“I want those things too!” Stan insisted, though he had actually never thought about anything beyond college. He and Kyle were both heading to Boulder; it was a mere 100 miles away, and there was a bus that went to Denver, from which there was a bus that went to Fairplay, at which point it was a short drive to South Park, and Stan’s parents would pick him up. If he ever wanted to go home, that was. Perhaps at some point he’d get his own car, though Stan still did not really want one, as they seemed expensive, and he had never had a job. He especially did not want one that had been sitting on the side of the road for a month.
"You don't get it," said Kyle. "I'm trying to let you down gently!"
Internally, Stan began to panic. Externally, too. "I don't know what to say!" He took a look into his cup and took a long sip of the margarita. He hated it; it made him cringe. He took another sip. He had to finish it, all of it, no matter how bitter it was.
"There's nothing to say," said Kyle. "I just - I feel a lot of pressure on me and you are making it worse."
"By drinking?"
"No, you dolt, by like - acting all clingy on me and speaking about my pain and whatever."
"Oh, bullshit." Stan was impressed with how steely he came off, despite the fact that his heart was fucking breaking. "You were the one clinging to me when we got here. You asked me to go to this party. I've spent the whole time by myself! You ran off with Wendy and Bebe the first time you saw them. You - you didn't even talk to me for weeks!"
Kyle's face scrunched up with frustration, like he wasn't sure he had an answer for all that. "Well," was all he managed. "Um." Now Kyle seemed as if he were going to cry. Pointedly, he said, "I'm not going to cry at this party!"
"Neither am I," said Stan, though Stan actually meant it. That just wasn't how he rolled.
"Wouldn't that be pathetic," said Kyle, "two fags crying under a tree at a Fourth of July party." He took a sip of his drink. "With margaritas."
"It's like the name of a poem, the title of a poem. Two Fags Crying Under a Tree At a Fourth of July Party Drinking Margaritas."
"I don't much like being called a fag," said Kyle, "though it's preferable to any number of things."
"What?" Stan asked. "Are you drunk? Is this actually all because you're drunk?"
"Maybe I'm somewhat tipsy," said Kyle, "and that's what's got me talking, but listen, I've been thinking about this shit for a while because - because I feel so stressed out all the time and everything is so hard!"
"You think I don't get that?"
"I think you don't get it," Kyle confirmed.
Stan gulped down the rest of his drink. It strung all the way. "Is this some shit your therapist told you?"
"My therapist helps me think things out. I just - how can I make this clear to you, Stan? There is something horribly wrong with me! I can't be with you, I can't be with anyone. I'm internally panicking."
"About what?" Stan asked.
"About what?" Kyle stood. "About what? About the fact that I'll never have a fucking penis! Jesus! Is it so hard to figure out! God! I just - I can't do this with you right now. I can't be your boyfriend right now, Stan, okay? I'm sorry. Or - you know, I'm not sorry. Why should I be sorry? I'm not. Or maybe I am."
"You're upsetting me!" said Stan. He did not get up.
"I don't care," said Kyle. "Like I said before, or - sometime. It must be nice to only occasionally be confused and upset."
When Kyle left, Stan did not move. He did not get up off the grass, or refill his margarita. He simply lay down and wallowed, wishing he'd brought his book.
Kenny came over to say good-bye. "Um." He squatted down. "Are you okay?"
"Leave me alone, Kenny."
"But you seem sad. What'd Kyle do? Is this a Kyle thing? I said hi to him and he fucking - grunted at me. Are you having heat stroke like Clyde?"
"Leave me alone, Kenny," Stan repeated. "I hate that we're friends."
"Have you been drinking?" Kenny asked.
"Barely. Please leave me alone," Stan said, for the final time.
"I'll, um - I'll call you tomorrow." Kenny left, too.
So it was Stan alone on the ground when the fireworks went off, crosettes and peonies, barely visible through the tree branches. An orchestra was playing the 1812 Overture, or maybe it was just a recording. Stan could have found out if he'd sat up, but he didn't want to. He felt immobilized. Briefly as a trio of red, white, and blue bees sputtered across the sky, he wondered why no one had noticed him lying there for - what? Two hours? Pathetic. He hated how he knew every kind of firework. He forgot about how alone he was and let his mind wander to Tchaikovsky. That guy was gay, right? Stan was trying to remember. Had he read that somewhere? Stan was not going to get depressed over this. Not over Kyle, anyway. He was 18, for fuck's sake, he was not going to do this, this lying on the ground feeling dead thing. The fireworks and the music - it was all very loud. Stan shut his eyes.
Someone kicked Stan in his side. "Ow!" he cried, finally sitting up.
It was Kyle. "I don't want my parents to know I'm drunk," he slurred. "Take me home with you." The overture had just reached the good part, the crescendos and the cannons at the end.
"Sure. Of course." Stan got to his feet, hesitantly. "Yeah, I said I would. Let's go."
"Are you drunk?" Kyle asked.
"God, no," said Stan. "I have literally been lying in the grass for hours. If you didn't notice."
"I didn't notice, no!" Kyle looked away.
"Great, then let's go."
It was really a short drive home. Kyle didn't say much, only "that party was okay" and "I had way too many hot dogs, you know?" Stan didn't know and he said nothing until they were parked in front of his house.
Stan's parents were gone, out at someone else's party, some guy Stan's dad knew at work. It was pretty early, only 8 or so. They probably wouldn't be home for a bit. "You know," Stan said, turning on the living room lights, "you can probably just kind of sober up or whatever and then, um, you can go home. Or just walk home. I can bring the car by tomorrow."
"Who says I want to go home?" Kyle drunkenly began to flip the lights on and off.
Stan snapped on a table lamp. "I guess I'll make the bed here." He moved to unfold the couch.
"No," said Kyle.
"No?"
"I want to sleep with you. Upstairs."
"You know it's really not bedtime," said Stan.
"Look." Kyle fell into Stan's chest, burying his head there. "Carry me up."
"You smell like margaritas."
"I bet I taste like them, too."
"I'll bet," said Stan.
Upstairs, Kyle flopped onto the bed, immediately removing his shirt. "It was so hot," he said. "That party was so fucking hot."
"You're so hot," said Stan. He cringed at himself, but he couldn't help it.
"Maybe you could fuck me," Kyle suggested. "Like, in my ass. Or in the front. I don't care anymore."
"What happened at that party?"
"Nothing happened. Why? Do you not want to fuck me?"
"I do, but like - you're drunk, and you just gave me a huge 'I hate you' speech, so I'm feeling a little raw right now."
"Like sushi! Raw like sushi." Kyle climbed to the edge of the bed and picked up Stan's library book. "Hey," he said, looking up. "How are these books?"
"What, those ones? They're okay I guess."
"You guess?"
Stan sighed, and sat on the bed, with Kyle. Stan wondered if Kyle would take his binder off.
"Hey," said Kyle. "I'm sorry I said that stuff before."
"It's okay," said Stan, though of course it wasn't.
"It's just hard for me, because of my - well, because of me, it's just hard for me."
"I know."
"Just please don't take it personally."
"Okay." Stan couldn't even look at him. One look and he might start crying. If that was the one difference between him and Kyle, that Kyle cried and Stan wouldn't, well, that was enough for Stan.
"But these books are just okay?" Kyle asked. He wrapped an arm around Stan's shoulders, put his lips to Stan's neck. "I've been meaning to read them."
"They're just okay, yeah." Stan swallowed. "He killed off my favorite character."
"Yeah? Oh my god."
"Yeah," said Stan. "But they like, remake her. She comes back as a zombie."
"I'm sick of zombies," said Kyle.
Stan did start crying.
Stan wasn’t repelled, though, merely fascinated. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen Kyle naked before, but not this exposed, his legs splayed for Stan to examine closely. Over the course of the past year, Kyle had sent Stan frequent e-mails documenting the development of Kyle’s body. He no longer had periods, Stan knew, not for some time; Kyle’s weight had redistributed, shifting from his thighs to his belly. Stan tired not to stare at Kyle’s junk, really tried, tried to keep his gaze focused on Kyle’s eyes. But Stan couldn’t help it, and he looked downward, past the binder, and the hair on Kyle’s stomach, to his genitals.
“I could - you know, I could mess around with it,” Kyle said, quietly. “If I wanted to. But no matter what I do I’ll never have a dick, you know?”
“Kyle,” said Stan, softly. “Kyle, I-”
“I could try to like, claw my way to something that kind of seems like one,” said Kyle. “I could pay to have them cut me up and rearrange me over and over again until I didn’t even look human. But what good would that do?”
“This is too much,” said Stan.
“Well, I’m sorry it’s too much for you,” said Kyle. “For me, it won’t ever be enough.” He grabbed Stan by the shoulders, and Stan felt that Kyle was shaking, too. Why hadn’t Stan noticed? Kyle leaned in and Stan sighed as Kyle kissed him. Kyle always initiated their kisses, it seemed, now that Stan thought about it - though he still relished the way Kyle melted into them. Stan waited for that, but it didn’t come this time.
“Will you do something for me?” Kyle asked, pulling away.
“Of course.” Stan wiped at his eyes. He felt so drained. “Anything.”
The wonderful thing about Stan’s lack of sexual experience, on the whole, was that he had no real frame of reference for what it should be like. He had never gone down on anyone before, man or woman or anyone at all, and he did not miss the weight of a cock on his tongue, nor cringe at the dryness, which was something he wasn’t expecting. Kyle had mentioned feeling wet before, though not for a while; maybe this was due to having taken hormones for some time. Stan quickly grew tired, but Kyle’s encouraging moans gave Stan incentive not to stop. The thought crossed Stan’s mind, as Kyle was grinding his hips forward, that Stan was on the floor and Kyle was on the bed, that they were in Kyle’s bedroom, and that Kyle had not actually bothered to ask Stan if this position was comfortable or even if Stan wanted to do this. All Kyle had said was, “Will you do something for me?” and honestly, Stan had been expecting Kyle to ask Stan to leave or to swipe them some beers from Stan’s dad, or something. As Stan pushed his tongue against the protrusion of Kyle’s clit he considered that perhaps they could change positions. Stan’s knees burned against the carpet.
“Here,” he said, into Kyle’s crotch.
“What?” Kyle sat up, grabbing for Stan’s hair. “Don’t - don’t stop-”
“Just - let’s - here.” Stan pulled Kyle off of the bed, and Kyle wiped at his eyes.
“Were you not enjoying that?” Kyle asked. “I was.”
“Good, no, I liked it.” Stan sat up straighter, unbuttoning the fly on his shorts.
“Then why did you stop?”
“Because I wanted - here.” Stan slid off his shorts, his cock so hard it was soaking the front of his briefs. He pulled those down, too, handing them to Kyle.
“What am I supposed to do with these, put them on my head?” He was flushed, a little sweaty. The binder was stained under his pits.
“I dunno,” said Stan. “I guess I thought it’d be sexy. Just, um - lie down. On your side, just - yeah.”
“What’s the point of this?” Kyle asked.
Stan angled himself across Kyle’s body so that he was hugging Kyle’s knees. “Now, you just kind of like, suck me off. I think?”
“Oh, you think?”
“Yeah, and then I - you know.” Stan pried Kyle’s thighs apart, kissing indiscriminately. It felt weirdly romantic, but Stan’s main prerogative was just exploring, learning more about Kyle’s body, seeing it from a new angle.
“Stay away from there,” Kyle said, when Stan licked at Kyle’s slit. “Can you just kind of suck it? Not, like, suction, but with your lips, but more - yes, like that!” Kyle relaxed as Stan adjusted, posture relaxing. “That’s pretty good.”
Stan looked up, trying to get a view of Kyle’s face, which was difficult in this position. “Dude, you have to - can you…?” He tried to thrust his dick toward Kyle’s face.
“I guess so,” said Kyle. He sounded unexcited. To be fair, he had sucked Stan off before.
It had never been easy for Stan to know when Kyle was coming, not unless Kyle said something about it. When Stan came he had to stop, clutching at Kyle’s thigh, panting. He felt completely drained of energy, unable to continue. It was a relatively weak orgasm; though Kyle gave okay blow jobs, he never gave them while being sucked off, or upside-down. When Stan sat up he had to look to Kyle for benediction, for a pronouncement that this had been okay.
Kyle didn’t say anything; he was still wiping the come from his chin.
“Um, how was it?” Stan was so tired, worse than any recent morning run.
“You tasted good today,” was all Kyle said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. What about me?”
“How’d you taste?”
Kyle blushed. “Yeah.”
“Well, not like much,” said Stan. “Kind of - like sweat. But, not in a bad way. Kind of like - I don’t know, not like how I imagined!”
“In what sense?” Kyle asked.
“In like - here.” Stan crawled over, pulling down his T-shirt. He grasped Kyle’s cheeks and kissed him. “What does that taste like?” he asked, pulling away.
“Not like semen, if you must know,” said Kyle.
“But, like.” Stan paused. “Did you come?”
“Are you serious? Did I come? Like, eight times.”
“Eight?” Stan could not imagine he was that good.
“God, I don’t know, I lose count after two.”
Stan stood up, reaching down for Kyle. Kyle’s balance as off when he was on his feet, and he fell back onto his bed. “Put your pants on, okay? You look insane.”
Looking down at himself Stan saw his softening dick, wet with Kyle’s spit mingling with his come, pubes matted. “I was so worried,” he said, bending over for his underwear.
“About what?”
“That you didn’t want to see me again.”
For a moment Kyle said nothing. Stan expected him to reply with, “Of course not.” Instead, Kyle looked away and said, “I was worried you’d never do that for me.”
“I’d do anything for you.” Stan hated to hear how his voice cracked.
“Well, I was worried no one ever would. I was worried - I worry I’ll have to end up with some lesbian or something. Some other trans dude. And that’s not what I want.”
“That’s a stupid thing to worry about!” Stan said, instinctually. As he was saying it he realized it was a horrible thing to say, the exact wrong decision, and yet it came out anyway. “I mean - it’s just - it’s inconceivable to me that someone wouldn’t want to be with you.”
“Or some fucked-up cheating straight guy who wants a guy with a pussy.”
“A guy who wants a guy with a pussy isn’t straight,” said Stan.
“I’m not in the mood to debate gender theory shit. Can you please put your pants on?”
Stan did, and it was the end of the conversation.
“It’s okay to be afraid of shit and uncertain and - you know, all of that,” Stan said, after dinner. Kyle’s mother had made beef stroganoff. It was only upon sitting down for this meal that Stan learned that Ike had been shipped off to Jewish summer camp for two months. The meal was unusually quiet, and the food was so heavy that Stan felt reluctant to go home.
When Stan said his piece about uncertainty, they were sitting on the front stoop, Kyle drinking from a liter bottle of diet Sprite. Stan was drinking a glass of water.
“I guess that’s true,” Kyle said. The faint sound of crickets developed as the sunset fractured into darkness. “I guess I’d say the same thing to you, Stan.”
“Okay,” said Stan. “I mean, I know. Yeah.”
“Okay.” Kyle coughed. “Are you going to Token’s party?”
“For the Fourth of July?”
“Yes, unless he’s having parties I’m not invited to.”
“That’s the only one I know of,” said Stan. The invitation had come via e-mail. “I was - considering going.”
“Do you want to go? Um, together?”
“You mean - like a date?”
“Kind of,” said Kyle. “Something like a date, I guess.”
“Then, yeah,” said Stan. “I’d love to.”
“Cool,” said Kyle. A moment passed before he spoke up again. He took a sip of the Sprite. He recapped it. “I’m sorry if I’m being weird.”
“It’s okay. I know you had that surgery. I really - it really matters to me that you’re okay.” Stan’s voice was full of neediness, and he cringed at it.
“I know, and I - sorry. I know I’ve been weird. I’m just trying to figure shit out. Because I don’t know what I want. When I said that shit about hiding-”
“It’s okay,” said Stan, expecting an apology.
“I know it was okay!” Kyle snapped. “It’s just that - the thing is, you’ve definitely never said how you felt about me.”
“Good,” said Stan. He felt confused, a bit afraid, though he wasn’t sure of what. Kyle’s words were heavy and he spoke slowly, contemplative. Stan said, “I don’t want you to have any doubts. About how I feel, I mean.”
“Great.” Kyle drank from the Sprite, emptying it. He tossed it onto the lawn. “Don’t worry,” he said to Stan’s groan. “I’ll pick it up later.”
Kyle did not ask Stan to sleep over, and Stan left after they kissed on the steps, in the dark. “You taste like beef gravy and Sprite,” said Stan, tenderly, into Kyle’s ear.
“But not like vagina,” Kyle replied, pushing Stan away by the chest.
Stan walked home.
~
July 3 was devastatingly hot, and Stan spent it running. He was lazy in the morning and waited until after lunch, pushing himself. Consequently he worked much harder in the blistering heat, soaking his shirt, pores burning with sweat-mingled sunscreen. He never considered how far he was running; he did not have a pedometer. He considered this for the first time as he soaked in the tub, A Feast For Crows abandoned next to the tub. After dozing there for 20 minutes, he got up and looked at the Buffaloes track and cross-country team sites, suddenly aware of how this might be something more to him than simply killing time. He had certainly not been recruited, not for running or for basketball, but there were open tryouts shortly before school began for both teams. It overlapped with orientation and Stan considered giving it a shot. It would depend on what Kyle thought, Stan figured. Perhaps he wouldn’t have time.
The next day was no less hot and humid, and Stan did not run. He was exhausted, staggering to Kyle’s house, afraid to drive for how tried he was. “I thought you were driving,” Kyle said, answering the door.
“I’m beat,” said Stan. “Can’t you?”
“I want to drink,” said Kyle.
“If you get drunk at the party I’ll drive your car home.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Kyle. “You’re not going to drink?”
“I’ll have, like, one beer.” At Kyle’s incredulous look, Stan said, “You figured I was driving anyway!”
“Fine,” Kyle relented. “I guess I’ll tell my dad I’m borrowing the car.”
For Token’s party Kyle had dressed on the same sky-blue shirt and a pair of white skinny jeans. Kyle had never worn skinny jeans, not ever. Stan was immediately turned on, boner throbbing in his own shorts.
“Those jeans look amazing on you,” Stan said as Kyle returned with the keys and a tote bag that looked crammed with a billion things.
“Thanks. I figured it was patriotic, see? Red, white, and blue.” He tugged at his hair.
“You’re super fucking patriotic,” said Stan, all but licking his lips. He had worn a long-sleeved black sweatshirt of his sister’s over his T, concerned about mosquitos. She had been wearing a lot of guy’s clothes over the past year, and Stan found the oversized pieces that blurred her figure to a nondescript androgyny fit him with the intended precision. (He was presently unaware if she knew he was wearing her shirts; she was in Turkey.) It was mid-afternoon, only about 3, but if this party lived up to its hype, Stan expected to be home after dark.
They found the backyard strung with red, white, and blue lanterns, bag-tosses set up on the lawn with starred-and-striped markers, tent over the buffet. Stan had not been expecting adults at the party, but here they were. Perhaps it was foolish to expect that Token’s parents and their set would not be there, though he had heard vague gossip that they had rental in Jackson Hole for the month of July. Maybe they were leaving after the holiday. Stan was certain that from the deck he could spy the makings of a fireworks display across the property.
As soon as someone shouted, “You guys! Hey!” Kyle clung to Stan’s arm.
It was Wendy and Bebe, both wearing American flag-print bandeau tops. Bebe’s peeked through the low V-neck of her airy red tank dress; Wendy’s was in contrast to the paleness of her pasty stomach, a slight roll of fat perched atop high-waisted denim shorts.
“Jesus,” said Kyle. “Those shorts, Wendy, shit.”
“Fuck that!” said Wendy. “You look amazing!”
“I do?” Kyle let go of Stan’s arm, though the feeling of Kyle’s nails in his flesh lingered.
“Yes!” said Bebe. She was wearing a pair of large white cat’s eye sunglasses and a huge sunhat that obscured part of her face, though Stan could make out blinding red lipstick. “God, like you don’t know.”
“You’re just saying that,” said Kyle. He crossed his arms over chest.
“No, you look really good!” said Wendy. “You’ve been hiding from everyone!”
“Well,” Kyle began.
“Don’t ‘well,’ ” said Bebe. “You have!”
“I had surgery,” said Kyle, lamely.
“And you!” said Wendy, pointing at Stan. Her nails had grown out somewhat, and she had done them with patriotic glitter. With those nails, being pointed at felt threatening. “You ditched me for pride!”
“I was never going to that,” said Stan.
“Why not?” Bebe asked. “God, it was insane!”
“Watching a bunch of queers dance stupidly in the street isn’t insane to me,” Stan said, bitterly. Suddenly he didn’t want to be here.
“Oh, god,” said Wendy. She was actually going to Vassar. “Seriously, though, Kyle, you look amazing.”
“I feel okay,” he said.
“Did you lose weight?” Bebe asked.
Kyle blushed. “By necessity.”
“We should talk,” said Wendy. She grabbed him by the arm. “Cartman made a fucking pool over whether you’d show up to this.”
“He did?” Stan asked.
“God, you really haven’t been around either!” said Bebe.
“He thought you had insider information,” Wendy added.
“Well, I did not.”
Wendy grabbed Kyle by the arm. “We should get a drink.”
“That’s great,” said Kyle. He turned to walk away.
Stan’s heart clenched.
“Wait, shit.” Kyle turned. “Stan.”
“Yeah?”
“My keys.” Kyle reached into his tote bag and handed them over. “You promised.”
Though he couldn’t recall having strictly promised, Stan took them. “No problem,” he said. It felt spousal to Stan, taking Kyle’s keys like that. He grinned as he stuffed them into his pocket.
Stan got a cup of fizzy cucumber-scented water from a glass dispenser jug on the buffet and joined some guys for bags. Craig Tucker was officiating, eating a hot dog as he determined that Clyde’s latest toss had fallen short. “It’s not touching the 10-point line,” Craig was saying. He was wearing an unflattering short-sleeved plaid button-down. The collar was buttoned up all the way, and it made Stan cringe.
“But it is on the line.”
“It’s totally not, man,” said Token. He was also eating a hot dog, though he was a pescetarian, and Stan suspected it was a tofu one. He thought to say something to the effect of, “I tried to go vegetarian once and it turned out horribly for me,” but that story was humiliating, and Stan restrained himself. They probably already knew.
“It is,” Clyde was saying. He was especially proud of his letterman jacket, and he was wearing it even in the heat. “It is on the line. I swear it’s on the line.”
“It’s really not,” said Craig, through a bite of hot dog. There was relish on his lips.
“It was,” said Clyde, “I swear it was on the line!”
“Maybe you want to take that jacket off,” Token suggested, kindly. He did not speak with food in his mouth.
“I need a beer,” said Clyde, and he staggered off.
“Is he seriously wearing that thing?” Stan asked.
“He’s going through some shit,” said Craig.
“Esther dumped him,” Token added. He took a bite of his hot dog.
Stan had pity for Clyde, though not much. He sipped his water. “That’s rough,” he managed to offer.
“Nah,” said Craig. “She’s nothing special. He could do better!”
“I don’t think it’s personal,” said Token, after swallowing. “It’s just, we graduated.”
Stan asked, “What, like people are just supposed to forsake all their ties because suddenly they’re not in high school?”
“No,” said Token, “but it’s kind of a natural breaking-off point. They’ve only been together a few months.”
“Who wants to end up with their high school sweetheart?” said Craig. “That’s so fucking - cliché. It makes my stomach turn.”
“That’s the raccoon meat tube you’re eating!”
“Fuck you, man,” said Craig. “I know your parents spring for all-beef.”
“Whatever.” Token rolled his eyes and finished off his tofu dog.
“Did Broflovski make it?” Craig asked.
“Yeah,” said Stan, “he did!”
“I saw him on the veranda when you guys came in,” said Token. “With - Wendy?”
“And Bebe,” Stan confirmed.
“Bebe’s looking ridiculous,” said Craig.
“I think she looks good!” Stan said.
“Ridiculously hot,” Craig clarified.
“You could get on it,” said Token.
“No way.” Craig took the last bite of his hot dog. It was slightly too large, and he wedged it into his mouth. “I’ve literally got bigger fish to fry. Cartman owes me 15 bucks.”
“That pool was stupid.”
“Did you guys seriously all bet on whether Kyle would show?”
“Morbid curiosity,” said Token.
“We wanted to see what happened to his tits,” said Craig. When Stan scowled, he added, “He blew off prom and graduation. Come on. He built up the suspense. On purpose. Knowing him.”
“He was not building up suspense,” said Stan, suddenly very angry. “He was in a lot of pain.”
“You’d know, I guess,” said Craig.
“Kenny said you guys weren’t hanging out much.”
“He was in a lot of pain,” Stan repeated.
“No need to get - weird,” Token said.
“Okay,” said Stan. “Sorry.” He wasn’t sure what the right thing to say next was. “I can’t drink,” he said finally, “because Kyle gave me the car keys in case he’s too drunk to drive home.”
“Your loss,” said Craig, apparently missing the part about Stan having Kyle’s car keys. “There’s a margarita fountain.”
~
Stan next ran into Kyle at the margarita fountain, where Kyle turned red and shouted at Stan, “Stop telling people I am in pain!”
Stan was not there to get a drink; he was merely curious. After having eaten a plain hot dog, he had sat with Kenny on the lawn for a time, while Kenny bitched about girl troubles. Stan had nothing to say to Kenny on the topic, and to get away from it Stan had offered to go find out about the margaritas. Sure enough it was exactly as promised, a champagne fountain burbling with lime-scented, vaguely green slush. Stan wondered how the drink wasn't melting.
"Sorry," Stan said. "It's just - you were."
"I know," said Kyle, getting somewhat close to Stan. He seemed as if this was not his first trip to the fountain, if only because his teeth had a very slightly green tinge. A sane person wouldn't know the precise color of Kyle's teeth, but Stan did. Also his breath smelled somewhat limey. "Don't go around telling losers about my personal business."
"I do not go around telling anyone about your personal business. You had surgery," said Stan, probably for the billionth time recently. "Of course you were in pain. And no one's seen you-"
"So what?" said Kyle. "I don't have to be seen. Maybe I don't want to be seen. Maybe I just want to get drunk for once like a normal person."
"Okay," said Stan. "Sorry."
"Maybe I'm still in pain," Kyle added.
"Well, I really hope not. If you are your plugs might be infected, or something. You should tell your surgeon."
"I had my drains out weeks ago!" Kyle walked away. His ass looked great as he left, disappearing behind a crowd.
Now Stan hated the party and wanted to leave. Unfortunately his ride was Kyle's car, which meant Stan was going to have to wait for Kyle. He could relinquish the keys, returning them to Kyle's possession; maybe Stan could just run home. But that would leave Kyle stranded, as he'd been drinking, and Stan just couldn't do that to Kyle. Stan felt anxious. There were so many people in the backyard. He actually hated all of them. He wanted to cry. ... No he didn't. He would just have a drink, one margarita. Maybe half a margarita. Whatever, there probably wasn't enough tequila in one fountain margarita to make Stan drunk, at least, not if he had a second hot dog. Maybe some chips, too. If they were going to be at this party long enough Stan would sober up regardless. Okay. He was doing this. Stan left to get his hot dog. This time he put relish on it.
Kenny was at the buffet. "Oh god," he said. "You know who else puts relish on hot dogs?" He was eating tortilla chips directly out of the bowl, not bothering with the seven-layer dip that was sitting to his left, on ice, in a silver tray.
"I don't know. Who?"
"Craig," said Kenny.
"Oh," said Stan. "Yeah, I guess I knew that. He was eating some before."
"Some what?"
"Like a hot dog with relish on it."
"Disgusting," said Kenny.
"Well," said Stan. He dipped a chip into the seven-layer dip. It appeared to be comprised of guacamole, beans, salsa, sour cream, a white cheese, a mottled orange-and-yellow cheese ... something else Stan couldn't identify ... maybe chorizo. He shrugged and stuck the chip in his mouth. "Are you just going to stand there eating chips all day?"
"Please," said Kenny. "This is my first round of chips. I have a shift in an hour."
"You do?" asked Stan. "On a holiday? Oh my god."
"Well, it's overtime," said Kenny. "People love to get patriotic with fucking pizza."
"I'll bet," said Stan.
"You know." Kenny leaned in. His breath smelled like hot dogs. "They're taking ribs off the smoker soon."
"Wow," said Stan.
Then, Kenny added, as casual as anything, "Donovan passed out with fucking heat stroke."
"Well, that's not surprising. He's wearing a fucking leather jacket in 92-degree - you know what, I don't care about Clyde."
"He got dumped," said Kenny.
"I know!" Stan walked away shaking his head. It was time for a margarita.
~
Stan sat down on the lawn with his drink, brushing the hot dog bun crumbs from his lips. The taste of the seven-layer dip lingered in his mouth. It was driving him crazy. It muted the first sip of his margarita, leaving him scowling. He looked around; even under a tree in the shade he was sweltering today. He should not have run yesterday. Not in this heat, not at all. He was glad he had taken off his sweatshirt.
"There you are!"
Stan looked up to see Kyle. The pits of his T-shirt were drenched in sweat now. It made Stan grin. "Hey," he said, raising a glass. "Toast. To like, the country, or something."
"I'm not going to toast you," said Kyle. "You're not supposed to be drinking."
"Sorry," said Stan. The glass was cold and wet in his hands. He wanted to reach out for Kyle, who sat down on the lawn beside him.
"I asked you to do one thing and that was drive me home," Kyle bitched. "I gave you my keys!"
"You asked me to be your date," said Stan. "And look. Here we are."
"You said you wanted to be my date! I just said let's go together."
"Yeah, so here we are together."
"Oh my god." Kyle put his drink aside and his head in his hands. In the humidity even his shorter hair was unruly.
"What?" Stan asked. "What's wrong? I'm definitely not going to get drunk. I won't even drink this if you don't want me to."
"I don't care if you drink that or not." Kyle's face was covered in the sheen of sweat. Stan would have licked it off at this point. He would have done anything. It was all he wanted. "I get the feeling," said Kyle, "that we should talk."
"About what?" Stan asked. He took a second sip of his drink. The slush had mostly melted in the heat.
“I don’t really know if I want to be in a relationship starting college,” Kyle said, swirling the margarita. Stan had already set his down; it was bitter, both from an overabundance of lime and too much sugar. It made his teeth sting, and his sense of taste was dulled. Yet Kyle kept drinking his, with a sour look on his face. Stan hoped it was from the margarita, and he hoped that Kyle did not drink the rest of it too quickly. “College is serious, Stan. I want to do well in college so I can maybe go to graduate school. Maybe get a good job. You know?”
“I want those things too!” Stan insisted, though he had actually never thought about anything beyond college. He and Kyle were both heading to Boulder; it was a mere 100 miles away, and there was a bus that went to Denver, from which there was a bus that went to Fairplay, at which point it was a short drive to South Park, and Stan’s parents would pick him up. If he ever wanted to go home, that was. Perhaps at some point he’d get his own car, though Stan still did not really want one, as they seemed expensive, and he had never had a job. He especially did not want one that had been sitting on the side of the road for a month.
"You don't get it," said Kyle. "I'm trying to let you down gently!"
Internally, Stan began to panic. Externally, too. "I don't know what to say!" He took a look into his cup and took a long sip of the margarita. He hated it; it made him cringe. He took another sip. He had to finish it, all of it, no matter how bitter it was.
"There's nothing to say," said Kyle. "I just - I feel a lot of pressure on me and you are making it worse."
"By drinking?"
"No, you dolt, by like - acting all clingy on me and speaking about my pain and whatever."
"Oh, bullshit." Stan was impressed with how steely he came off, despite the fact that his heart was fucking breaking. "You were the one clinging to me when we got here. You asked me to go to this party. I've spent the whole time by myself! You ran off with Wendy and Bebe the first time you saw them. You - you didn't even talk to me for weeks!"
Kyle's face scrunched up with frustration, like he wasn't sure he had an answer for all that. "Well," was all he managed. "Um." Now Kyle seemed as if he were going to cry. Pointedly, he said, "I'm not going to cry at this party!"
"Neither am I," said Stan, though Stan actually meant it. That just wasn't how he rolled.
"Wouldn't that be pathetic," said Kyle, "two fags crying under a tree at a Fourth of July party." He took a sip of his drink. "With margaritas."
"It's like the name of a poem, the title of a poem. Two Fags Crying Under a Tree At a Fourth of July Party Drinking Margaritas."
"I don't much like being called a fag," said Kyle, "though it's preferable to any number of things."
"What?" Stan asked. "Are you drunk? Is this actually all because you're drunk?"
"Maybe I'm somewhat tipsy," said Kyle, "and that's what's got me talking, but listen, I've been thinking about this shit for a while because - because I feel so stressed out all the time and everything is so hard!"
"You think I don't get that?"
"I think you don't get it," Kyle confirmed.
Stan gulped down the rest of his drink. It strung all the way. "Is this some shit your therapist told you?"
"My therapist helps me think things out. I just - how can I make this clear to you, Stan? There is something horribly wrong with me! I can't be with you, I can't be with anyone. I'm internally panicking."
"About what?" Stan asked.
"About what?" Kyle stood. "About what? About the fact that I'll never have a fucking penis! Jesus! Is it so hard to figure out! God! I just - I can't do this with you right now. I can't be your boyfriend right now, Stan, okay? I'm sorry. Or - you know, I'm not sorry. Why should I be sorry? I'm not. Or maybe I am."
"You're upsetting me!" said Stan. He did not get up.
"I don't care," said Kyle. "Like I said before, or - sometime. It must be nice to only occasionally be confused and upset."
When Kyle left, Stan did not move. He did not get up off the grass, or refill his margarita. He simply lay down and wallowed, wishing he'd brought his book.
Kenny came over to say good-bye. "Um." He squatted down. "Are you okay?"
"Leave me alone, Kenny."
"But you seem sad. What'd Kyle do? Is this a Kyle thing? I said hi to him and he fucking - grunted at me. Are you having heat stroke like Clyde?"
"Leave me alone, Kenny," Stan repeated. "I hate that we're friends."
"Have you been drinking?" Kenny asked.
"Barely. Please leave me alone," Stan said, for the final time.
"I'll, um - I'll call you tomorrow." Kenny left, too.
So it was Stan alone on the ground when the fireworks went off, crosettes and peonies, barely visible through the tree branches. An orchestra was playing the 1812 Overture, or maybe it was just a recording. Stan could have found out if he'd sat up, but he didn't want to. He felt immobilized. Briefly as a trio of red, white, and blue bees sputtered across the sky, he wondered why no one had noticed him lying there for - what? Two hours? Pathetic. He hated how he knew every kind of firework. He forgot about how alone he was and let his mind wander to Tchaikovsky. That guy was gay, right? Stan was trying to remember. Had he read that somewhere? Stan was not going to get depressed over this. Not over Kyle, anyway. He was 18, for fuck's sake, he was not going to do this, this lying on the ground feeling dead thing. The fireworks and the music - it was all very loud. Stan shut his eyes.
Someone kicked Stan in his side. "Ow!" he cried, finally sitting up.
It was Kyle. "I don't want my parents to know I'm drunk," he slurred. "Take me home with you." The overture had just reached the good part, the crescendos and the cannons at the end.
"Sure. Of course." Stan got to his feet, hesitantly. "Yeah, I said I would. Let's go."
"Are you drunk?" Kyle asked.
"God, no," said Stan. "I have literally been lying in the grass for hours. If you didn't notice."
"I didn't notice, no!" Kyle looked away.
"Great, then let's go."
It was really a short drive home. Kyle didn't say much, only "that party was okay" and "I had way too many hot dogs, you know?" Stan didn't know and he said nothing until they were parked in front of his house.
Stan's parents were gone, out at someone else's party, some guy Stan's dad knew at work. It was pretty early, only 8 or so. They probably wouldn't be home for a bit. "You know," Stan said, turning on the living room lights, "you can probably just kind of sober up or whatever and then, um, you can go home. Or just walk home. I can bring the car by tomorrow."
"Who says I want to go home?" Kyle drunkenly began to flip the lights on and off.
Stan snapped on a table lamp. "I guess I'll make the bed here." He moved to unfold the couch.
"No," said Kyle.
"No?"
"I want to sleep with you. Upstairs."
"You know it's really not bedtime," said Stan.
"Look." Kyle fell into Stan's chest, burying his head there. "Carry me up."
"You smell like margaritas."
"I bet I taste like them, too."
"I'll bet," said Stan.
Upstairs, Kyle flopped onto the bed, immediately removing his shirt. "It was so hot," he said. "That party was so fucking hot."
"You're so hot," said Stan. He cringed at himself, but he couldn't help it.
"Maybe you could fuck me," Kyle suggested. "Like, in my ass. Or in the front. I don't care anymore."
"What happened at that party?"
"Nothing happened. Why? Do you not want to fuck me?"
"I do, but like - you're drunk, and you just gave me a huge 'I hate you' speech, so I'm feeling a little raw right now."
"Like sushi! Raw like sushi." Kyle climbed to the edge of the bed and picked up Stan's library book. "Hey," he said, looking up. "How are these books?"
"What, those ones? They're okay I guess."
"You guess?"
Stan sighed, and sat on the bed, with Kyle. Stan wondered if Kyle would take his binder off.
"Hey," said Kyle. "I'm sorry I said that stuff before."
"It's okay," said Stan, though of course it wasn't.
"It's just hard for me, because of my - well, because of me, it's just hard for me."
"I know."
"Just please don't take it personally."
"Okay." Stan couldn't even look at him. One look and he might start crying. If that was the one difference between him and Kyle, that Kyle cried and Stan wouldn't, well, that was enough for Stan.
"But these books are just okay?" Kyle asked. He wrapped an arm around Stan's shoulders, put his lips to Stan's neck. "I've been meaning to read them."
"They're just okay, yeah." Stan swallowed. "He killed off my favorite character."
"Yeah? Oh my god."
"Yeah," said Stan. "But they like, remake her. She comes back as a zombie."
"I'm sick of zombies," said Kyle.
Stan did start crying.