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“He’s probably being friendly, and I’m overthinking it,” said Will, feeling foolish for even voicing the idea. “I mean, could he be gay? Surely not, right? Just…nice?”
“Life is full of such conundrums,” said Jordan. “Is he handsome, or does he just smell really good?”
Will smiled. They played this game often. “Do you actually like him, or is he just a doctor?”
“Does he have his life together, or does he just own a bed frame?”
“Is he obsessed with you, or does he just text back?”
“Is he the one, or is he just wearing one of those denim jackets with the fleece collar?”
“Oh god, I love those.” Will pressed his hand to his forehead in a mock swoon.
“Everybody does,” said Jordan. “Any man looks hot in one of those. Put Patrick Lake in a sherpa jacket and you’d be a goner.” A moment passed in silence as both men conjured and savored that particular image.
“Maybe he’s bi,” said Will. “Or pan.”
“If that were the case, it would make him the first bisexual in the universe who doesn’t mention it all the bloody time,” Jordan retorted. “Have you been on TikTok lately? For a group of people who are constantly complaining about being erased, they really don’t shut up.”
“Not you practicing your tight five while I’m trying to have a conversation,” said Will. “What’s next, a joke about vegans?”
“The meat industry is killing the planet and there is absolutely nothing funny about that, William.” Jordan popped a Frazzle into his mouth. “OK, fine, do you want to know what I really think?”
“Rarely, but go on.”
“If Patrick is into men, and that’s a big if…I don’t think he’d be into you specifically.”
“I take it back. I never want to know what you think.”
“I’m being serious. There’s a reason that muscular, straight-acting, white gay men tend to only date other muscular, straight-acting, white gay men, not fruity little F-words like us.”
Will sighed and nodded in reluctant agreement. Because Jordan was right, of course. How many times had a guy seemed enamored of Will’s looks on an app, his tall lean frame and dark body hair, only to drastically change his tune as soon as they met in person and heard his loud, reedy voice? Even Ry had gone and found a deeper-voiced version of him, one without all the flouncy extras. He felt stupid for entertaining this train of thought. He should know better by now.
But Jordan wasn’t finished.
“There’s a reason,” he repeated, and he reached out to touch Will’s hand. “I think they’re jealous of us.”
Will scoffed, nearly choking to death on his Frazzle in the process. Jordan sat patiently until he was finished spluttering, then continued.
“It takes a lot of time and hard work to put on muscle,” he said. “But ultimately, most of us are capable of that, given the inclination. It takes even more work, even more practice and constant self-policing, to make sure your voice is never too high or soft, your wrist never too limp. That sounds like quite an exhausting way to live, doesn’t it? Then there’s the likes of us. I truly believe that it takes greater strength and genuine guts to be like us. To live as freely and faggily as we do, even though we know it might get us killed if we sashay down the wrong street at night. I don’t care how square someone’s jaw is, or how well he catches a ball or throws a punch. I’d rather risk a beating than hate who I am, or have women be afraid of me. We’re the real men, Will. Never forget that.”
Will sat for a moment absorbing this.
“Do you really believe that?” he asked.
“I never say a single thing I don’t wholeheartedly believe,” Jordan replied, hand placed beatifically on his chest. “By the way, your hair is looking a bit frizzy. What conditioner are you using? You know curls need extra moisture, I’ve told you this.”
Will stuck up his middle finger and snatched away the last remaining Frazzle. Loving Jordan was akin to loving a house cat—just when you thought they’d finally shown you their soft underbelly, they swiped at you with their claws to remind you who was boss.
The buzzer rang. Will disentangled himself from Jordan, playfully batting at his friend before walking over to the front door and peering at the little screen.
“Speak of the devil,” he said.
“No way,” said Jordan. “Superman is downstairs? How does he even know where you live?”
“He insisted on dropping me off after dinner last night.” Will hit the intercom button. “Hi, come on up,” he said, frantically swiping at the pungent, starchy dust that he could now see was all over his T-shirt and jeans. “What is he doing here?” he yelped in Jordan’s general direction.
“No idea,” said Jordan, not stirring from the sofa. “I bet you’re wishing you’d hoovered better.”
