Will he or won’t he

Sex is so easy, thinks Will, as the boy slides haltingly down toward his penis. What a nice boy, Will pats him on the head. But the waxy malaise refuses to budge, even as breathing quickens. Its veil shimmers a little as he comes, but doesn’t dissipate. Well.

The eyes on this boy are the questioning sort, wide and shining. Dog eyes, maybe. Did I do a good job?

Will lies back onto the bed, moves a hand over his own chest. Was he expected now to spend 20 minutes working on this person? God.

But the redhead seems content to slip into his Buffalos and out the door. Will is glad for this. After all, tomorrow is a big day. He gets to register for his second year of courses at UBC.

***

Three pairs of sneakers-tan, white and fuchsia-are up on the veranda’s railing.

The fuchsia sneakers lean over toward the tan pair and a voice says, “So. What’d you do last night?”

“Blowjob with what’s-his-name,” reply the tan shoes. “You?”

“Blowjob with Cowboy from the attic suite.”

“Still haven’t seen this Cowboy of yours. You don’t know his name?”

At which point Lucy’s white pumps give ferocious little kicks to the two boys and Lucy pipes in, “You two astound me. You don’t even know whose name to yell out when you climax.”

Ryan rolls his head to look dolefully into Lucy’s eyes. “I always just yell out my own.”

Prior Walter, landlord of Mole Hole, snaps open the screen door and lugs a pitcher of Long Island iced tea onto the veranda. Hoots and cheers greet him and everyone pulls a glass.

“Cheers, Pry.” Will holds up a dewy tumbler. But Pry only grunts, stretches his back, and settles onto the steps with a Du Maurier king.

“Okay,” says Ryan, fingers wiggling over the blueberry iMac’s keyboard. “What courses shall I take?” A manic grin is issued to Will and Lucy.

The straw that Lucy has been chewing droops down. “You haven’t picked your courses yet?” With a dour glare she waves her fistful of contingency plans in the air.

Ryan looks to Pry for guidance, but the landlord is immersed in a hushed conversation with his rottweiller; they appear to be discussing politics.

Who cares what I take, wonders Ryan, looking bitterly into his drink and back up to the boring list of course names on the screen. They don’t mean anything, these names. How can he know what “Romantic Poetry” will be like from such a vague title? They should include a picture of the prof.

The screen door gives a creak then and Ryan’s regular trick appears on the veranda, sans cowboy hat. The boy spots Will and freezes, gripping the straps of his backpack.

It takes only a moment for Will to recognize his old roommate from Totem Park residence. “Chris!” he shouts. “What’re you doing here?”

“Um. . .” Chris seems to be confused on that point. But Ryan helps him out.

“Cowboy lives up in the attic, Will. I told you about him.”

Lucy contents herself with pursed lips and dispatches a this-is-going-to-be-great gaze at Pry. Even the sleeping rottweiller’s ears have now perked, unwilling to miss anything.

“You two know each other?”

“We were roommates last year.” Chris is scratching his jaw and backing down the front stairs. He trips, shouting “fuck me,” over Pry and sails to the sidewalk in a little falling dance.

The veranda is now populated by a series of arched eyebrows as Chris jogs blindly down Pendrell street.

“Chris is your Cowboy?”

“I’ve been blowing him once in a while, when he comes home drunk.” A thoughtful sip of Long Island. “Here,” says Ryan, “why don’t you pick your courses first.” He passes Will the laptop.

Will is torn between his course load and the imperative of discovering whether he missed out on a year’s worth of sex with a supposedly straight roommate.

“Is he?”

Ryan bats his eyes up from his drink, lips kissing sweetly at the straw. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

“Is he gay, Ryan? Is. Chris. Gay?”

Ryan sighs as though it were the most tedious question in the world.

“Poor boy. But I suppose that’s the difference betwixt us: You ask ‘Is he or Isn’t he?’ and I ask ‘Will he or Won’t he?’