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Mac’s mouth waters at the sound of the tape whirring in the VCR, at the way the light from the TV splashes phosphorescent blue across the darkened dorm room, sharpening the edges of the textbooks stacked on the desk and the soft lines of his bare thighs against the bedsheets. He swallows around his Pavlovian response when the right side of the mattress dips, eyes trained in the direction of the TV but hard to feel anything beyond the electric sensation of Dennis’ arm grazing his. He hands him the half-empty bottle - lotion, not booze, he laments - the fifth of Jose Cuervo sits empty on the nightstand, the sugary-sour flavor still heavy on his tongue.
It’s not gay if you’re looking at tits, bro. That’s what Dennis told him the first time, right?
At any rate, that’s the version of the truth Mac’s let himself believe, the first time and every time after.
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