Page 10

Single as a Pringle

Charlie

Idle chatter and clinking glasses swirl around me, but I barely register any of it because my mind is stuck on the fact that Harrison is here. At this poetry slam. Acting like he didn’t tilt my world on its axis three months ago.

I fight the urge to glance over my shoulder to check him out. I’m not a kid with a crush. I’m a grown man…with a crush.

When Daniel spots his girlfriend, I don’t miss the way he walks to her on shaky legs. It appears that Harrison’s presence is also affecting my best friend. I can’t say I blame him; it’s not every day that either of us makes out with another guy, let alone each other.

Had someone told me that one day, I’d be kissing my best friend, I’d have laughed in their face. I’ve kissed my fair share of women, and none of them compared to kissing Harrison and Daniel.

Kissing them was an explosion of sensation.

Daniel’s stubble scraping against my skin, his large hands gripping my hips possessively.

Harrison’s hard planes of muscle pressed into me as he drove his tongue deeper down my throat.

It was utterly addicting, like a drug I never knew I craved until that first hit.

As much as I try to deny it, that night unleashed something inside me. Desire, curiosity, a desperate yearning to experience that rush again. To feel their hardness again.

I shake my head, trying to physically dislodge the memories before my body betrays how much I loved it. This isn’t the time or place to be fantasizing about my two almost-lovers. Not when one of them is standing mere feet away, his very presence threatening to undo my fragile composure.

Besides, it was a drunken mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment born of too much alcohol and not enough sense. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. Because if it did, if I let myself acknowledge the possibilities it whispered of, my heterosexuality would be called into serious question.

And that’s a can of worms I’m not ready to open. Not now, maybe not ever.

Instead, I’ll do what I do best—shove those pesky feelings down deep and pretend they never existed. Lock them away in a box labeled “Do Not Open” and throw away the key. It’s served me well so far, this denial. Why mess with a winning strategy?

With a deep breath, I plaster on my most charming smile and follow Daniel over to where Olivia is chatting with a group of people.

She’s perched on a metal folding chair with her legs crossed and a glass of wine between her fingers.

Her dark hair is tied back in a casual bun, and her lips are colored ruby red.

Her eyes light up when she sees Daniel, and she pulls him in for a kiss that has me averting my gaze.

Not because it’s too intimate, but because it reminds me of when he kissed me. Full lips wrapped around mine, hesitant at first, then hungry and demanding. The little gasp he let out when I nipped at his bottom lip.

Fuck. I’m doing it again. Daydreaming like some horny teenager instead of a grown-ass man with self-control. Get it together, Charlie.

I need a distraction. My eyes dart around the room, searching for anything or anyone to latch onto.

They settle on Harrison because, of course, they do. He’s leaning against the far wall, a black hoodie draped over his arm. Is he planning to escape? Can I go with him?

“Charlie!” Olivia cries out my name, rising to her feet to give me an air kiss on each cheek. The fuck? “I’m so glad you could make it.”

Her perfume is strong, overwhelming me, and I devolve into a coughing fit. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I deadpan, flashing her a tight smile.

She pats the two open seats beside her. Daniel and I sit down, the metal chairs creaking under our weight.

Around us, an eclectic mix of artwork lines the walls.

There’s a painting of a crying clown, which gives me the heebie-jeebies; a sculpture made up of used condoms, which gives me the ick; and a photograph of a naked man covered in Saran Wrap, which gives me… a boner?

“Charlie’s the only one flying solo tonight.” Olivia gestures at our row of couples—her and Daniel, her girlfriends, and their boyfriends. “But who knows? Maybe he’ll meet a lovely girl here. Or guy. I don’t judge.”

My soda goes down the wrong pipe, and now I’m coughing for a whole different reason. Daniel thumps me on the back until I settle down.

“I think I’m good,” I wheeze to both of them. “Being single as a Pringle isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“Here, here,” says one of the guys sporting a man bun. “Before I met Leslie, I was having a grand old time with Jill.” He holds up his right hand and wiggles his fingers suggestively.

Third coughing fit of the night—activated.

As I regain my composure, the lights dim, and a hush falls over the crowd. The woman from the brochure, Danielle, steps up to the podium. The only word I can think of to describe her outfit is “funky.” She has on a neon green blouse, a purple tulle skirt, and combat boots covered in glitter.

“Good evening, my beautiful creatures,” she purrs into the microphone. “Welcome to the Nichols Art Gallery’s first poetry slam!”

The crowd erupts in a chorus of snaps. It’s so pretentious that I have to physically restrain myself from rolling my eyes.

“We’re thrilled to be hosting this event tonight.

For those new to the scene, a brief overview of the rules.

Each poet will have three minutes to bare their soul.

They can read from either their phone or a piece of paper.

At the end of each performance, our esteemed panel of judges will hold up scorecards ranging from zero to ten.

The poet with the highest cumulative score at the end of the night will be crowned the champion and receive a fifty-dollar gift card to the organic kombucha bar down the street. ”

More snaps. I glance over at Daniel; judging by the grimace, he’d rather be getting a root canal. Glancing past him, Olivia watches with wide eyes and a huge-ass grin.

“And now, without further ado, let me introduce our judges for the evening,” Danielle continues. “First up, we have the incomparable Levi Goldstein. He’s a senior at Ashford University, majoring in gender studies and minoring in underwater basket weaving. Interesting choice.”

A skinny guy with a nose ring and a tattoo of a dreamcatcher on his neck stands up and takes a bow. I recognize him from one of my Gen Ed classes last year. He sat in the back of the room and contributed nothing to the discussion except for the occasional grunt.

“Next, we have the lovely and talented Sage Moonbeam, a sophomore at Pratt Institute who is studying interpretive dance.”

A girl with dreadlocks and a flowing skirt covered in peace signs waves to the crowd. I think I matched with her on Tinder once, but she unmatched me after I asked if she wanted to grab a beer sometime.

“And last but certainly not least, we have the brooding and mysterious Raven Blackwood, a junior at The New School studying creative writing.”

A man with black hair, black clothes, and sporting black eyeliner, nods solemnly at the audience. I shrink down in my seat when his eyes sweep over our row .

“All right, my darlings,” Danielle says giddily. “Let’s get this party started!”

Two horrible hours later, I’m ready to let the existential quack eat me for dinner. It’s a sauna in here now. The air is thick and muggy, clinging to every inch of exposed skin. I tug at the collar of my shirt, fanning myself in a futile attempt to cool down.

My patience is wearing thin as poet after poet takes the stage, droning on about the most inane topics.

A guy with a handlebar mustache is currently at the mic, passionately expounding on the rising sun reflecting off morning dew. Didn’t the last poet wax poetic about sunrises? I’m starting to suspect some serious plagiarism afoot here.

“The sun’s warm rays caress the supple petals, igniting them in a fiery glow,” Mustache dramatically intones. “My heart beats in sync with the unfurling blooms.”

Oh, give me a break. I fail to stifle my snort. God, this is painful.

Mercifully, Mustache finishes to a smattering of snaps. But my relief is short-lived as the next contestant, a lanky guy with a patchy beard, takes his place. He clears his throat and regales us with an extremely detailed account of losing his virginity to his “smokin’ hot neighbor.”

“Her ample bosom heaved with desire as I ripped open her blouse,” he recites, eyes closed. “My turgid member throbbed against the silk of her panties.”

Is this a poetry slam or a bad porno? I shift uncomfortably in my seat as my dick starts to wake up. What? It’s been a while, okay? Even this cheesy drivel is getting a rise out of me.

I glance over at Olivia to see her reaction and nearly choke. She’s leaning forward, mouth agape, hanging on to Patchy’s every word. Daniel, on the other hand, looks constipated. I elbow him .

“Dude, you okay?” I whisper.

“How much longer is this thing?” he hisses back desperately. “I can’t take much more.”

“You and me both,” I mutter, shifting again as my hard-on refuses to abate. Fuck my life.

I try to adjust without drawing attention to myself. The last thing I need is for someone to think I’m jerking off and get arrested for public indecency…again.

As Patchy reaches the inevitable climax—pun intended—of his piece, I decide I can’t sit here a minute longer or I might spontaneously combust from the heat. I need some air.

Standing abruptly, I mumble an excuse to Daniel about hitting the head, and make a beeline for freedom. The cooler air in the hallway is a balm to my overheated skin. I lean against the wall and take deep breaths.

The bathroom door swings open, and out steps Harrison. He freezes when he sees me, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into a smirk. “Not your scene, huh?”

“What gave it away?” I ask dryly. “The fact that I’m breathing as if I ran a marathon or the pure misery on my face?”