Wednesday morning, the Embassy guy came to the office again, trying to seal a deal with the other side despite enduring resistance. It takes time, do boys ever understand? But damn, he was so well-manner and manly, especially with that new haircut and that body-fit suit and tie.
We met the following day for work lunch as well. This time, the proximity between us was tremendously reduced from 1 table away to right across each other. Every word he said was breathing sex. Every single one out of those thin pink lips.
His socks were carefully chosen in in-synced color with the rest of the outfit. His shoes perfectly carved with tiny flowery patterns. “I’m the only one without a wife in the Embassy,” he said to my boss once. All those stereotypical signs, plus working under a flamboyant gay ambassador, has provided ground for my personal assumption that turn into fantasies when the night falls.
I met Bret after more than a year barely making any contact. He just came back from Myanmar and helped deliver some Burmese cigars so I treated him a round of beer in return. We used to conduct the same English class once years ago and he had always been that cute dorky straight guy with a strong sense of sexuality curiousity around and the red boxers always got shown whenever he bent down.
After 2 beers, the conversation started to venture into the physical side.
“You know, I’ve been with her for 6 years. Sometimes I just want to…,” it looked like Brett got troublies finding his words. His eyes were shifting back and forth.
“Yes, something different.”
I excused myself and left home,trying not to think of his reddish typsy baby-ish face, the kind that you could easily relate to those straight-turned-gay amateur videos.
All that Bret. Too much perception. Never enough evidence. The idea of crossing the line is always tempting but never accomplished. Or maybe not crossing it is what makes it exciting.