Sharif’s cock pointed accusingly toward Will at the breakfast table. Knotted in a mess of still slick fur, the poor thing was pickled over with wear and tear. Will smiled over at it with sleepy, blinking eyes.
“Jesus Christ on a crucifix!” Ryan entered the kitchen in a chiffon flurry and tightened the belt on his housecoat. “Don’t you boys even shower? Just look at you! Your gonads look like the shit you find in bathtub drains.”
Sharif spat his cereal back into the bowl. “No time,” answered Will, munching a slice of toast. “We’ve got 20 minutes to catch the bus.”
Ryan began smelling T-shirts from the pile on top the dryer. “Why didn’t anyone wake me?”
“We were fucking,” Sharif shrugged.
“If you’d really been fucking,” returned Ryan, “you would have woken me. I swear, sometimes you two hump as timidly as tit mice.”
“Coffee,” blurted Will. “We’ve got time for coffee, right?”
Ryan was picking up the dishes and sounding hard done by. “I made coffee yesterday.”
“We’re on a cycle?”
Sharif stood, scratching at the tangle in his pubes. “For chrisakes, I’ll make the coffee.”
But Ryan shot bug-eyes at Will. “Sharif cannot make the coffee.”
“Why not?”
“He’s only been around for a month! Now he’s making coffee? In-laws make coffee, Will.”
Sharif checked his watch. “We don’t have time anyway. I’ll buy you both lattes at Melriches.”
Clothes began to collect on the nakedness. “Besides Will, Sharif’s the man here-if he starts making you coffee it’ll fuck with your gender play.”
Sharif snorted. “You’ve been reading too much theory.”
“And anyway,” argued Will as he slouched into something wooly, “who says Sharif is the top? We’re versatile.”
“Versatile,” repeated Ryan, turning the word over on his tongue like a marble. “Thin walls in this house, you know. I hear it all.”
“We both take it!”
“But Sharif’s a Power Bottom. And you, Willyou’re just a warm hole.”
“Fuck nut,” was Will’s diminished reply.
But Sharif blinked happily as he packed his school bag. “I’m a Power Bottom?”
***
At the bustling coffee shop, Mels Belles (Ryan’s term) were in fine form. A baby had been shrieking in the corner, but one of the baristas hollered “Give it a tit!” and the scandalized family scurried away.
Will, Sharif and Ryan, ensconced in autumnal toques and poorly knit scarves, sidled up to the bar. “Three hazelnut lattes,” piped Sharif.
On a loveseat near the counter, Chris from the attic suite was reading something thick looking. One knee was raised and poked through the rip in his jeans. As one hand held the awkward text, the other, unconsciously, fingered the window of red-gold leg hair.
“Whatcha reading?” whooped Ryan from the counter. He made a swing for the book: “My Gender Workbook?” Maybe too loud, everyone thought to themselves.
“Fuck off guys.” The backpack twisted violently in his hand when Chris shoved in the text. Ryan spilled latte on the couch with his laughter.
“Just . . .” But Chris choked on his breath and pushed a path past the boys.
“What the hell was that about?” Sharif searched for the right size lid. “Come on, Ryan, we’re late as it is.” And the three of them set off down Davie St, blowing on their drinks.
Spotting Chris across the street, Ryan jogged through traffic on an impulse. “One second,” he barked at the others.
“I said fuck off, Ryan.” A puberty bubble squeaked in Chris’s throat.
“You dropped this,” said Ryan, fitting a dark metal tube into his pocket. “Erno Laszlo’s a good brand. But we can get you a better colour.”
Why you can trust Xtra
